


Tomorrow Was Not Dull

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A younger Altair and Malik are thrown into the near future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow Was Not Dull

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme, and I have so many thanks yous to give to [solaciolum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/solaciolum/pseuds/solaciolum/works) for the beta and being patient with me and making this fic not the mess it started out as.

They had been sparring when the world suddenly turned over their heads in a dizzying sweep of colors and lights. At first, Altair thought he had switched to his second sight, stunned into the grey vision as Malik slammed into him, knocking the both of them to the ground. There was a sudden burst of gold unlike anything Altair had ever seen, vast and all-encompassing instead of the single silhouette he was used to—but when he blinked, there was only Malik on top of him, the flat of his palm tucked under Altair’s chin to force his head back. Had there been the hidden blade strapped to Malik’s wrist, Altair would have been dead. 

“What was that?” Malik had asked, pulling his hand back. He glanced down at Altair, seemingly displeased that his victory was only because of the distraction that overtook them. Not waiting for an answer, he looked around, the frown on his face deepening. 

Altair scowled, more bothered by the heavy weight straddling his chest. “Get off-“ but Malik was already doing so and he did not bother to offer Altair a hand up, which suited Altair just fine. He’d rather have Malik’s thoughts elsewhere than on the fact that the other novice had just won their sparring match, distraction or no. 

“The trees,” Malik began, sounding unusually confused for a moment before he swatted Altair’s arm, snapping, “ _Look_ , Altair.”

Altair stood up, taking the time to brush the dust from his robes to annoy Malik further. He was making quite a show of it too, until he noticed the shadow of leaves that fell across his arm and the cool air that blew against his damp skin—strange, for he remembered the sun being unforgivably hot and bright while they fought. Looking up, he was surprised to see leafy, overhanging branches above him. 

“Where are we?” he asked, bewildered. As far as he knew, they had not ventured outside the fighting ring, and even if they had, Altair was sure he would have at least  _remembered_ vaulting over the barricade to chase down Malik—and it  _would_  have been to chase Malik, who had been retreating before he had taken advantage of the strange golden flash to knock Altair to the ground. 

“Idiot. We haven’t moved,” Malik said, but his hesitant tone suggested that he had been thinking the same thing. He turned, observing their surroundings with a fixed expression. “The trees have grown,” he muttered, putting a hand to his left temple to rub the spot viciously. 

And it was true. Altair could recognize the courtyard easily enough—the layout, the buildings that surrounded it—but everything appeared to be just a little bit off. The trees, as Malik had pointed out, were still at the outer edge of the courtyard, but had suddenly grown to provide shade that reached all the way to the sparring ring. The area smelled of fresh hay and grass instead of rusting metal and sweat, and even the grey cobblestones beneath Altair’s feet felt different, softer, more worn and cleaner too, devoid of muddy boot prints and old bloodstains. It was strange, almost overwhelming, to see the whole place in a different light—and a much warmer one, though Altair was not going to admit it. 

“Malik,” he said, annoyed, “What did you do?” 

Malik whirled around, incredulous. “What did _I_ do? I am _flattered_ , Altair, that you think I am capable of such sorcery that would clean the entire courtyard and make the very trees grow bigger, and not to mention-” 

Malik’s rising voice had drawn the attention of an Assassin, possibly one of the instructors, though Altair could not identify him through the hood and mask.

“What are you two doing out?” the man called as he approached them. He did not sound angry, and his good-natured tone struck an odd note of familiarity. “Students should be inside the library, studying. Latin, I believe.”

Beside him, Malik had gone quiet and still, but Altair stepped forward, meeting the stranger with a sharp gaze that made the instructor pause. 

“We have permission to be out,” Altair said, only stopping when Malik murmured something under his breath that made him tense. 

“ _Master_ Rauf, if you would be so kind as to humor me,” said the older man, overhearing. He stared at them with a puzzled look, but Malik had grabbed on to Altair’s arm and begun pulling him away as realization slowly dawned on them both. 

“Apologies, master, we were just heading to the library,” Malik said, and they both hurried away, even as they looked over their shoulders to gawk at Rauf—who should have been shorter than either of them, with a higher-pitched voice, and certainly not wearing the robes of higher-ranking white. 

But his eyes, Altair thought as he followed Malik up the curved stairs to the library, his eyes had not changed. They were still friendly and bright, and he absently wondered why Rauf had not gotten himself killed yet because of it.

The library’s tables were occupied with novices and teachers, most of them strangers to Altair, though there were a couple of faces that stirred the back of his mind. Malik did not say a word, though his steps faltered once when his gaze turned upwards for one quick moment, somewhere at the second floor where Al Mualim’s desk should be, before he pulled up his hood and continued walking. No one paid them any attention, but Altair did the same, smoothing the cowl over his head, grateful for the excuse to look around without seeming to. It was clear that Malik intended to go to the garden sanctuary, one of the few areas within the busy fortress that hardly anyone frequented. Why he wanted to go there was beyond Altair—they would certainly find no help within the bushes and weeds—but Malik’s hand was tight around his arm, threatening to drag him like an unruly child if he did not keep up. 

He was panicking, Altair realized, in his own silent way, and it was only because Altair himself was so unsettled that he allowed Malik to pull him to the gardens. 

They stumbled across the grassy field and Malik veered off the main path, into a junction where a corner of the fortress met with the cliff’s edge, hidden from view and hard to find even without the wild tangle of leaves and vines that crept up the stone wall. This, Malik regarded with irritation, wrinkling his nose at the thick smell of jasmine. He let go of Altair’s arm and sat down, lips moving without a sound, but Altair heard the Creed nevertheless: nothing is true, everything is permitted. _Everything is permitted._  

“Why are we here?” Altair asked, recognizing the spot as one of Malik’s haunts, though without the overgrowth of jasmine the last time he came. He had discovered it some time ago, just as Malik had discovered his secluded awning on top of one of Masyaf’s towers, both secret and treasured places to be alone in peace. He wondered then if his awning had fallen into ruin like Malik’s hideaway, filled with dust or broken wooden planks and nothing to be remembered by in the years to come. 

“Because I need to _think_ ,” Malik hissed, livid for no reason Altair could see, except that, somehow, they had ended up in the near future, which Altair thought would be less angering and more mystifying—and that was especially telling, given his equally volatile temper.

He knelt down, not caring if he was disturbing Malik—and what was there to think, anyway, in this situation?—and prodded his shoulder. “I saw you looking at something in the library. What was it?” 

It was like he had a talent for exposing the sources of Malik’s fury—even those that were not of his own doing. Malik stiffened, even going so far as to grab onto his left shoulder where Altair had touched him, mouth curled into a bitter smile. 

“Back there, I thought saw myself,” Malik said, “but I do not think it was me.” 

“Really?” Altair prompted when Malik fell silent. “And what are you so furious about? Robes still grey?”

“Black,” Malik replied flatly, giving Altair a rough shove out of habit. He did not elaborate or gloat, but glanced at Altair, brow furrowed as if looking for something that he had little hope was there to begin with. “And I thought I saw you, too, but I have my doubts.” 

“Disappointed I’d still be alive?” Altair asked, though he was more interested in his future-self than Malik’s opinion. “What color were my robes?” 

Malik remained tightlipped before dropping the hand from his shoulder to curl it upon the grass. He opened his mouth, half a syllable already formed when a laugh sounded behind them, followed by a pair of hushed voices. 

They exchanged a glance, eyes darting to the jasmine bushes, and in an unspoken agreement, scrambled behind the thicket, pushing the vines and leaves so that they draped over them like a green and white-speckled blanket. Altair couldn’t explain the need to hide like this, or their unwillingness to be discovered when hardly anyone could blame them (or even _believe_ them). All he knew was that they weren’t supposed to be _here_  —in this spot, in this _time_  —and maybe Malik felt the same way, closing his hand around Altair’s wrist once more to pull him further back. 

As the voices grew louder, Altair saw the flutter of black fabric, lined with red and a white-patterned design at the feet, a Grandmaster’s robe. His thoughts went to Al Mualim, assuming that their master was conversing with another dai, but as the two figures came into view, slightly obscured behind the white petals of flowers, Altair saw that it was not Al Mualim at all. This Grandmaster was far too young, with calloused hands that were not yet withered with age and a strong gait that was too restless to mirror Al Mualim’s own stately footsteps. The dai with him was also strange, if only for the familiar way he walked and gestured, playfully shoving the Grandmaster with one hand, while the other- 

-well, there was no other hand, but the dai was leaning in close to the Grandmaster, saying something that did not reach Altair’s ears, but made the Grandmaster duck his head, the hood of his robe hiding his expression. 

The grip on Altair’s wrist tightened, almost painfully, and he heard the absence of Malik’s breath, could feel the other freeze up so that not even the tiniest rustle sounded between them. Altair risked pulling his arm back, and noticed how Malik seemed entranced by the scene taking place before them. Light filtered in through the leaves and he saw the anger surface in Malik’s eyes again; trailing behind it was a flicker of disappointment. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from Altair’s wrist and went to clutch at his left forearm, drawing the grey sleeve in a tight bind. 

The dai laughed again, more like a scoff than a chuckle, and Altair abruptly understood, because it was _that_ wry laugh he was so accustomed to, even before the Grandmaster took hold of the dai’s shoulders and said, “ _Malik_ ,” in a growl that sent a chill down Altair’s spine— that was _his_ voice, low and dangerous and full of command.

Despite everything, a surge of pride washed over Altair, making him giddy and unable to suppress his grin. It was _him_ wearing the Grandmaster’s robes, tall and fitting, _him_ grabbing onto the older Malik’s arm without a word of protest from the dai, who only looked at the Grandmaster with something that might have been respect, not like the Malik Altair knew now, with all his exasperated retorts and smacks to the head.

The future was a good one, he concluded smugly, even though Malik would somehow lose his left arm; at least he would become a dai, and Altair would become Grandmaster. 

As if reading his thoughts, Malik reached over and flicked his ear without looking. Altair bit down a curse, clapping his hand over his stinging ear before mouthing, _‘what?’_  

Malik ignored him, still watching as the Grandmaster and dai continued to talk. Their heads angled in certain ways that were puzzling, right up until the dai fisted the front of the Grandmaster’s robes to yank him close, pressing their lips together with a grin.

Altair’s mouth fell open at precisely the same time his older counterpart’s did, though for an entirely different reason. He could feel his face heat up, embarrassed and confused, unwilling to turn to Malik to check if they were both seeing the same thing. A part of his mind refused to acknowledge it, the way _he_ leaned into the kiss, pushing forward like he could not get enough of the dai’s mouth. Altair could see it, the flash of teeth and tongue, and how it almost gave distraction from the hands that left the dai’s shoulders to brace against the stone wall, both arms trapping the other man, though _trapping_ may have been the wrong word to use. Altair had the feeling that it was the Grandmaster who was trapped instead, sliding slowly to the ground as if in defeat, except for the way Malik, older Malik, slid down with him, back pressed against the wall and a leg hooked around the Grandmaster’s waist to keep from falling too fast. 

They settled on the grass, breaking off to quip at each other, all of it inane but not entirely meaningless. The rustle of cloth and metal carried beneath their voices, belts and crimson sashes loosening with practiced ease. Altair did not understand how Malik could smile like that, or how the Grandmaster dipped his head to allow a hand to run across his forehead, pushing the hood back to show flushed cheeks and an expression so open with affection, it and made Altair’s chest grow tight with unaccustomed want and jealousy.  _Jealousy_ , despite the fact that the Grandmaster _was_ him, because Altair was not sure if they were really the same person in the end. 

He found himself breathing through his mouth, trying to block out the heady smell of jasmine. It became worse with the sight of the Grandmaster’s robes fanning over their bodies, revealing little of what they kept on or took off. Altair’s imagination involuntarily filled in the rest, spurred on when the Grandmaster arched his back, the hem of his long robes lifting to momentarily expose Malik’s bare thigh and shadowed angles of his hip. They were quiet, but the small gasps, the soft, wet noises of their mouths were loud to Altair, and even louder to him was the sound of Malik, _his_ Malik, breathing next to him, stirring the thick air and scented flowers. He could swear he felt every soft exhale, hot against his cheek, and he wanted to look—to see Malik affected by this too; he had to be, if not for the way the Grandmaster rocked against the dai, then for the way their gazes met and held on in the brief seconds their faces pulled away. 

There was a murmur, indistinct, but Altair read the downward tilt of the Grandmaster’s head, the tiny shifts of his body, and knew what every motion meant. The gestures were all his, though Altair could not remember the last time he left himself so vulnerable, and could not _believe_ he would put ever himself in that position.

“Please,” the Grandmaster was saying, burying his face into the dai’s left shoulder as the other man’s arm disappeared within the folds of their robes, doing something that made their rhythmic movements jerky and uncontrolled.

A sharp intake of breath beside him drew Altair’s attention away. He turned and saw Malik with a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle whatever noise was lodged in his throat, noises like the one the dai was making, low and on the verge of breaking. Malik’s eyes flitted towards him, widening when he saw that Altair was watching _him_.

Though he felt his face burn at the implications, Altair held Malik’s gaze until the moment broke with a shuddering moan, distant but impossible for either of them to ignore. They turned away at the same time, unable to face each other to the sounds of their own names being choked down and cut off. He closed his eyes, wanting it all to stop— his growing fascination, the shiver running up his spine, those _noises_  — and forced his hands to stay at his side, balled into fists so that he did not use them to cover his ears as Malik did to cover his mouth.

When the silence finally came, Altair opened his eyes, shocked by the suddenness of it, and stared at his clenched hands in disbelief. For all the thought he put into not wanting any of it, he was straining to hear more, and when he could not, he _looked_. 

The Grandmaster was resting his head on the dai’s shoulder, languid even as he slumped against the other man. He tilted his head, smirking at Malik’s dazed expression, and planted lazy kisses along the dai’s jaw until he was pushed back by a hand that was far gentler than the grumbling complaint. 

It was the contentment written on their faces that stole the rest of Altair’s breath, made it rush out before it caught in his throat and cracked as loud as the jasmine branches when he sat back and bought his hand up to clamp over his mouth. At the same time, Malik was reaching forward to silence him as well, fingers clutching beneath his jaw. The Grandmaster and dai stiffened, and the Grandmaster looked over his shoulder, eyes vacant and staring in a way Altair knew that it would be no use to hide. 

It was as if Grandmaster’s gaze was a physical blow; the air burst from Altair’s lungs as a heavy weight slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back. Bursts of gold flashed before his eyes, and his head spun. The smell of jasmine was overwhelming, for all that he could not _breathe_ because of the hand that pressed against his throat. 

Struggling, Altair gasped and the pressure eased, though the weight across his chest was as heavy as ever. The golden spots faded from his vision and he opened his eyes to see Malik over him, chest heaving and his face damp with sweat. 

“What was that?” Malik asked, and it seemed so long ago since Altair last heard those words. 

They were back in the courtyard. The harsh sun was beating down of them, the ground burned, and the air was too hot without the shade of the trees. For a moment, Altair could not answer, swearing he could still smell the jasmine flowers. He grabbed on to Malik, alarmed by his question. 

“You saw it too, right?” Altair did not dare move with Malik on top of him, all too aware of Malik’s thighs at either side of his body, straddling him without conscious thought. 

“What?” Malik looked down at him, drawing his hand back from Altair’s throat, but Altair reached out and dug his fingers into Malik’s left arm. 

“You were there,” he said fiercely, nudging Malik off, yet refusing to let go of his wrist. “You were there with me.” 

“Altair-” 

Standing, Altair pulled Malik to his feet, and this time it was _him_ dragging Malik up the stairs, through the library and into the gardens. Malik wrenched his arm free several times, protesting, but Altair took hold of his hand, gripping tightly, and Malik quieted. 

“Here,” he said to the empty corner of the fortress and cliff’s edge, filled with dry grass and weeds, and strangely barren without the tangled overgrowth of jasmine vines. Altair breathed in, imagining the cloying scent that followed him. “We were here.” 

Malik glanced at him, exasperation written all over his face. “Of course we were. Yesterday.” 

“No-” Altair began, almost desperately, but Malik reached out, brow knitted. 

“And tomorrow,” he continued, fingers brushing at the top of Altair’s head. 

Despite the lightness of Malik’s hand, Altair started, the tiny movement causing something to fall from his hair, and they watched as the tiny white flowers fell, drifting to the ground. Malik’s hand lowered, hovering over Altair’s shoulder before plucking a leafy sprig of jasmine that had snagged in his robes. “Or maybe in a couple of years.” 

Altair stared, first at the vine twirling between Malik’s fingers and then at Malik, who was regarding him with a half-smirk. 

“So you _knew_?” Altair hissed, feeling his face heat up. “Why didn’t you say anything before?” 

Malik folded his arms across his chest, his reply coming a little too slow with not enough smugness to match his smirk. “It was funny to see you panic.” 

Altair bristled. He stepped forward, grabbing on to Malik’s shoulder — a faraway echo of something that would, _could_ happen — but instead of turning with him, Malik held his ground. The smile disappeared from his face, and he shrugged off Altair’s hand.

“Whatever it was we saw,” he said, as if it were something he needed to clarify, “does not mean it is going to happen.” 

His jaw was set, stubborn and determined, and there was something in his expression that was new to Altair — solemn as ever, but there was a look of ease in his eyes, even as the color rose in his cheeks and the tension set his shoulders into a rigid line. For all of Malik’s disappointment and apprehension, maybe there were parts of _that_ future that were not entirely disheartening. And it showed, in the way he frowned at Altair, thoughtful and searching, and tossed the sprig of jasmine away, not looking to see where it landed. 

“It didn’t seem all that bad,” Altair said, lightly enough to withhold an argument for once. 

Malik’s speculative gaze turned sour. “You _would_ say that, being the grandmaster-” 

“Yes, there’s that, but I meant the other thing,” Altair interrupted, words coming out in a rush. Somehow Malik must have known what was going to happen; he stepped back in alarm just as Altair came forward to press his mouth against Malik’s. 

It was curiosity, more than anything, that made him part his lips, just to see if Malik would push back, shoving his tongue between Altair’s teeth so that it was more of a fight than a kiss. They had been taught, as Assassins, to take advantage of every opening and seek out any weakness; this was no different. Malik took Altair’s challenge with a little twist in his expression as if to say, _fine, might as well, it is too late now_. 

It was uncoordinated and uncompromising, heads tilting the wrong way, teeth clacking, biting too much, too hard or not enough, and there never seemed to be enough time to breathe before one of them would dive forward again, demanding and without thought for the other. They should have stopped, just from the awkwardness of their hands tangling as they tried to claw over their robes, hair, or neck, but Altair was persistent, as was Malik, because they _knew_ that they could get it to work — the open-mouthed kisses, the timing of their breaths, and the push of their bodies — because they had seen it happen, so it was obvious to Altair that they would get it right, eventually. 

He was forced to break away, gasping, but Malik chased after him, hand gripping the back of his head, refusing to let Altair pull away completely. Altair took a quick breath, knowing that it was not nearly enough to fill his lungs, but Malik stayed put, the air playing over Altair’s damp lips as the other boy exhaled, waiting and staring.

When Altair leaned in again, it was careful and deliberate, but no less eager. Malik made a pleased noise, the soft sound making Altair’s mind turn blank. Before he knew it, he was pushing Malik into the wall of the fortress, tripping over his own feet and stumbling into the older boy. Hands bracing against the warmed stone, Altair stilled at the familiarity of having Malik trapped between his arms, the image sharp in his mind, of Malik hooking a leg around his waist to bring them down, red sashes being taken off, and long, black robes hiding what was already obvious. Had he given it any real thought, Altair would have recoiled at how much he  _wanted_ it, all of it — the easy, open affection, the contentment — not just Malik, crowded into the wall under him. Without meaning to, he glanced up, expectant, and was met with Malik’s annoyed expression. 

“Predicting the future?” Malik asked, flushed and panting, but decidedly more mindful than Altair. He kept his position, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. 

“You seemed to like it well enough,” Altair replied, smirking and moving closer until Malik put a palm over his mouth, stopping him. 

“I _did_ like the sounds you were making,” Malik conceded, grip tightening when Altair would have pulled away, scowling. 

“That wasn’t m-” Altair began, only to be cut off by a short gasp as Malik lowered his hands to Altair’s waist, slotted his thigh between Altair’s legs and nudged upwards. Hips jerking, Altair pressed his face into the curve of Malik’s neck, muttering breathlessly, “That wasn’t _all_ me.”

Intending to prove it, he slid forward, leaning his whole weight against the other boy. Altair let out a shaky breath and dug his fingers into the gritty stonework. He could feel Malik shift beneath him, lining up their bodies and letting the rough fabric of their robes do what their hands were too occupied to manage. Altair lifted his head, watching Malik grit his teeth for all of two seconds before Altair brought their mouths together again. 

Even if Malik was determined to believe that future was not theirs, Altair was not above exploiting what he had seen -- that Malik liked to be kissed long and deep, that his eyes would slide shut, and that he would like it even more if Altair made a wanting, drawn out moan from the back of his throat. In some ways, it was easy to imitate, but it was difficult, too, when Altair did not, should not,  _might_ not love Malik the way the Grandmaster did. 

In the end, it was better to not think of anything at all, not with Malik’s hands fisted behind Altair, body arching. This had nothing to do with love or the future; it was just the simple physicality of heat and friction, the taste of salt on their skin. He pulled at the ties of Malik’s robe with one hand, growling in frustration when the cords knotted and refused to loosen.

They were impatient, and like all their fights, it was only ever over on a misstep; Malik moved forward when Altair thought to lean back, overstepping in each other’s way while simultaneously trying to maintain some semblance of kissing -- which they had silently agreed would only be awkward if they  _stopped_. Malik’s eyes flew open, eyelashes tickling Altair’s cheek as he moved to suck a spot beneath Malik’s jaw. A sharp intake of breath gave away his surprise before he slipped over the loose dirt and dried grass.

With a small yelp, Altair overbalanced, feeling Malik’s grip tighten and drag him down as he fell. His palms scraped over the stone wall, burning from the roughened edges and cracks that bit into his skin. He landed on Malik, nearly hitting his forehead on the other boy’s drawn up knee. 

They laid there, stunned and unable to move or speak. Malik was slumped against the wall, and he slowly brought hand over his face in a gesture that was a mix of mortification and exasperation. Clearing his throat, he twitched his leg, and Altair noticed that he had been sitting on top of it. 

Blushing furiously, Altair shifted into a crouch, but kept his hands on the ground near Malik’s waist. A part of him had half a mind to continue, while the other half was in total agreement with Malik, wanting nothing more than to slap his hand against his face. He leaned forward, still giddy with the fragrant flowers crushed under them, but Malik’s boot against his chest brought him up short and nudged him away. 

“I think we’re done,” Malik said, still covering his face as Altair fell back. He dropped his hand, glaring for emphasis. 

Altair met Malik’s stare. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees with more force than necessary. Malik remained where he was, and Altair saw that his hair was in disarray and his robes were skewed to one side, exposing a reddening mark low on his neck. 

On impulse, Altair smirked, anything to ignore the growing embarrassment and sudden appeal of Malik looking so disheveled. He held out his hand, offering it with a flippant air. “At least we will have something different to practice tomorrow.” 

Malik’s brow raised and his laughing scoff was one of disbelief. “One day your head is going to burst from all those presumptions.” 

Altair lifted his chin in challenge, hand still outstretched and waiting-- because he was not blind to the way Malik was looking at him either. “Tomorrow,” he repeated, unwavering. 

Malik tilted his head, but instead of taking Altair’s hand, he smacked it aside and stood up on his own. There was a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth, growing into a grin as Altair withdrew with a scowl. 

“What are you so impatient for?" Malik asked, reaching out to flick the last of the white jasmine petals from Altair’s shoulder, and giving him a small push out of the way before he walked off, calling over his shoulder. 

“We’ll have time.”


End file.
